I spent Yom Kippur in Jerusalem. The holiest city in Judaism may be the best or worst place to spend the holiest day in Judaism. I’d originally planned to cross the border and spend the day in Bethlehem, but like everything else (Jewish) in this country, the Israeli checkpoint was closed that day.
Yom Kippur was on October 8 this year. Although circumstances have thrown in me a bit of a time warp (warm weather on Halloween, first autumn of my life not regimented by an academic calendar), I do realize this was over three weeks ago. Yet even as I procrastinated on this post, certain indelible images stayed imprinted in my mind.
But nothing I have to say is accompanied by any images, unfortunately. Part of me has always felt that the camera and the sacred should have no business together and I was especially wary of angering the Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) with my camera. You see, I did not want to get stoned. With actual rocks – not with probably what leapt to mind for most of you Tumblr folks.
Rules — These are forbidden on Yom Kippur: eating, drinking, wearing leather shoes, bathing, martial relations.
Driving — None, except for the occasional police car or ambulance. There are reports of ambulances getting stoned. The streets are ghostly quiet. Air pollution dips markedly.
East Jerusalem – If you ask a Jew, most of them they will tell you that everything is closed on Yom Kippur from the radio stations to the buses to the Muslim and Christian shops. This is not true. In the predominantly Arab East Jerusalem, life went on as normal. I wanted to say something about de facto segregation in Israel, but I realized that black and white communities in the US can be similarly clueless about each other.
Knesset – The Israeli Parliament, obviously closed on Yom Kippur. I walked to the park where it’s located and saw one guard on duty. He got up when I approached. “You have to work today?” I asked. My guess is he was an Arab Christian, but that’s my guess only.
Chickens — The Friday prior to Yom Kippur, I kept seeing what looked like stands selling live chickens around the Old City. They didn’t look like butchers (no blood) nor were they for cockfighting (not all roosters). When I saw a Haredi Jew on a bike approach one such chicken seller, I hung around hoping find a clue to the chicken mystery. But I plunged only deeper into confusion when the guy started waving the chicken over the Jew’s bike helmet-clad head. He did it maybe three times, and then the guy rode away leaving the chicken. When I asked Noam, my CouchSurfing host, about this, she reacted with an eyeroll and exasperated sigh, “I think it’s one of the stupidest, most barbaric traditions. It’s called kapporot.” Kapporot is the pre-Yom Kippur ritual of transferring one’s sins to the chicken, which is then slaughtered. Usually these days, for all but the most orthodox Jews, the chicken is substituted by money, which is then donated to the poor. One of the things that become rapidly obvious being in Israel are the tensions and outright discrimination between different groups of Jews, whether it’s based on ethnicity (Ashkenazis aka “white” versus Mizrahis aka Middle Eastern) or religion (secular versus Orthodox).
Shoes – Here’s an outfit to imagine: a Haredi man dressed in his usual “penguin” uniform of black suit, starched white shirt and shod in, what else, Crocs. (Because they can’t wear leather, see above.) Indeed Crocs are ubiquitous here. Other footwear I witnessed on Yom Kippur: hotel slippers, socks.
Clothing – A couple Germans I met at my hostel and I tried to visit a synagogue and they wouldn’t let me and the other girl in. We walked out and, quite naturally, decided to take a stroll around Mea Shearim, the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood in Jerusalem. Mea Shearim has signs posted, “To women & girls who pass through our neighborhood we beg you with all our hearts, please do not pass through our neighborhood in IMMODEST CLOTHES. Please do not disturb the sanctity of our neighborhood, and our way of life as Jews committed to G-d [sic] and his Torah.” In case you’re wondering, the sign defined modest clothing as these, “closed blouse, with long sleeves – long skirt – no trousers, no tight-fitting clothes.” I felt immodest wearing pants, which is funny because I think most of us in the Western world consider skirts to be more feminine and, yes, sexier than pants. Married women are not allowed to show their hair, so many of them wear wigs. The clothing—fur hats, shawls—worn by men makes it feel like walking through a city of a different century. Three year old children, dressed like miniature adults, wander the streets by themselves.
